ORPHANS
by Bliblou
Summary: "Do you believe that if I dyed my hair black, people would take us both in?" John asked, curled up against Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock shrugged. "Parents dislike me." MH/GL KIDFIC.
1. I LOST BOYS

**ORPHANS**

I. LOST BOYS

No matter how many times Sherlock tried to explain to Elizabeth – his latest caretaker (he hated the word 'nanny') – that Mycroft was going to meet them in Reykjavik, she still wanted to call him, to make sure he really would be there to meet them.

He wouldn't.

Mycroft had no intention to meet them in Reykjavik. He had no intention to be in Iceland for the next two months either. He was not even aware that Sherlock and his caretaker were heading that way. Sherlock wanted to surprise his mother, who had been living in Reykjavik for the last year, trying to 'find herself back' after her husband had been found dead in a parking lot.

However, nothing he had said had convinced Mycroft to let him live with their mother and Sherlock had remained in their old family house, now empty except for him and the old domestics.

Sherlock hated it there, so he had planned it all and now here there were, on the ferry from Aberdeen to Reykjavik, with a stressed out caretaker searching for her phone.

Sherlock was pretty sure she would not find it.

He had stolen it as soon as they had been on board.

Passing through the custom post had been stressful. Sherlock, which name for now was Loki, an Iceland citizen, had been quite proud of his forgery. At six, he had been able to create a false Iceland ID for Elizabeth 'Gunn Walsberg' and himself. He had also been very clever in his explanation to Elizabeth, who until now had been sure Mycroft, for their protection, had provided them with these new IDs.

Yes, Sherlock knew he would not have been able to do such a thing if Elizabeth had been bright. She was however, not. And as they would now be in Reykjavik in four hours, it did not matter if she realized she had been duped.

She was beginning to be quite mad at him though, so Sherlock found his way to the stern of the ship, living her in a state of panic behind him.

* * *

"Mum, why do we have to go there?" Nine years old John H. Watson asked his tired looking mother. She bent down and crouched in front of him. "I told you John, it's a new life that begins. Your dad's family home is really big, I am sure we'll be very happy there."

John frowned and crossed his arms. "But they don't speak like us, and I don't know anyone there. Ma, please, let us go back home. We could stay with Greg - ?" John would not cry, but he really didn't want to go live in another country, so far away from his father's grave.

"We don't have a choice, John. And that is quite enough with this attitude."

"But mum I –"

"No, John! Enough!" She stood up and walked to a bench, sitting herself down.

John blinked the tears away, guilt and despair storming through as he remembered how his father's blood had felt on his tiny hands as he tried to close the wounds on his arms.

He had failed.

Quietly, he made his way to the boat rail and let his head rest on his arms, looking at the sea.

"You should know that your mother has gone back in your cabin," said a voice behind him. John looked down and fell in the weirdest eyes he had ever looked into. Blue-Grey-Green light stared at him intently. The eyes belonged to a little boy, no older than five or six years old with wild black hair and a very fine coat. He was also lying under a bench.

John looked up and saw that indeed, his mother had disappeared.

"How do you know she is my Mom?" He asked, sitting himself down on the floor in front of the little boy. The latter smiled and shrugged.

"I heard you," he said.

"Oh, so you're a spy?" John said, smiling weakly.

"I am not. I am a Pirate-detective," the boy answered, but then he saw someone running around and hid himself further under the bench.

"Who is it then? Is she _your_ Mum?" John watched the women looking frantically everywhere, looking at him for a second before walking away quickly. He didn't call her back.

He knew what mother could be like, and he was not going to betray the boy to someone he was hiding from.

"She is not my mother!" The kid answered vehemently while still keeping his voice to a low degree. "She is the woman my brother chose to take care of me. She is stupid and annoying and she never wants to experiment or investigate or let me read medical books and I hate her."

John arched an eyebrow. "Well, she doesn't seem to be much fun then. Do you want to play with me?"

The kid stared at him a long time, frowning.

He eventually nodded. "You should know that I have not played with anyone other than my brother since I was three. Other children usually dislike me very quickly."

"Other kids are stupid, I am John." John said.

The boy stayed silent again, before a smile extended itself onto his lips and he crawled from under the bench. "I am Sherlock."

* * *

Sixty five minutes later, as they were investigating a large puddle of melted ice on the deck, the explosion coming from the prow, where everyone had gone to see the dolphins almost threw Sherlock off the ship.

John caught him violently and tucked him against him.

"John, John. We are going to sink," Sherlock whispered, and John could feel him starting to shake.

John was about to contradict him, when people began shouting and crying out.

"We have to find a lifeboat," said John, alarmed. But as soon as they began moving, a new explosion shook the boat and it tilted dangerously. John yelled at Sherlock to take a hold on the rail boat, as he threw himself around Sherlock and hold onto the rail as well.

Sherlock had been right, there were going to sink and all he could think about was that he had to save that amazing little boy and that his mother was probably dead.

* * *

"John, you can't keep doing this, you know. It's really very rare for a boy your age to be wanted by a family, why don't you ever give them a chance. I promise you that we will do everything we can to find your brother a wonderful family."

John frowned and crossed his arms. It was the third time he had been sent back by the family who had taken him from the orphanage. He hated them. He hated the fact that each time some parents decided they wanted him; he was not given a chance to argue. Only the certitude that if things didn't go well with the family he could come back prevented him from taking Sherlock – Eiden– with him, and disappearing.

"They could have kept me, if they had taken Eiden with me."

The woman sighed and closed her eyes.

In this little orphanage in Montrose, John and Eiden were infamous for their stubbornness in not being separated. It was as if no one, not even the chance to live with a loving family, could keep them apart.

They had been found on a floating bench, not far from where the ferry from Aberdeen to Reykjavik had sunk. There were among the twelve survivors of the tragic accident and no one had found any remaining families for either of them. Eiden had been in a bad shape, close to hypothermia, with a bad cut on his head that had earned him an intracranial surgery and the loss of his hair.

John had claimed they were brothers, John and Eiden Watson, and, as in a twist of fate, the record from the boat's passengers had been lost because of some kind of computer virus, no one had been able to find out who they really were.

They were lost boys.

Orphans.

* * *

**_Hello everyone. I hope you had a good read and weren't to put off by the certainly present mistakes I made. Excuse my french roots :) Please leave a review to let me know what you thought. _**

**_'Till the next chapter, folks and thanks for reading ^^_**

**_Blibl'_**


	2. II SAD MEN

**II. SAD MEN**

Most of the time, Mycroft Holmes did not like to be reminded he was still a teenager. On the 14th of February however, he would have given everything to be reminded that he was not older than secondary school kids and that he was not responsible for the terrible loss their family had suffered.

But he could not be a teenager anymore.

His mother's dark grey eyes, piercing and fierce, would look at him with hate and resentment. She blamed him for the disappearance – or was it a kidnapping? – of Sherlock almost fourteenth months ago.

He had been fifteen at that time, and while their mother had been descending into a depression closer to mental illness than grief induced trauma, he had had to take care of a little Sherlock.

And oh, how he loved – still do – that boy.

Indeed Mycroft had always been more of a father for the child, taking care of him even when he was still in diapers as their parents preferred to fulfill their social obligations.

But Mycroft had been due to enter University at sixteen and had had to lessen the time spent with Sherlock in order to organize everything, from his hard studies to their moving to London. Sherlock had hated him for his sudden lack of interest in his experiments, certainly thinking that, as their mother had before him, Mycroft was now growing bored with Sherlock.

That he would disappear at a time when he thought Mycroft did not love him anymore was crippling.

He had done everything he could to find him; Contacted every last person his father had worked with, investigated in every place he could think of, begged to be helped by any kind souls.

Sherlock remained lost to him and he was the only one to blame.

* * *

There were several reasons why Gregory Philippe Lestrade had chosen to join the police forces. The first and most important one was a little boy named John Watson. The bravest and saddest kid Greg had ever met.

It had been his first night at the police station and he had thought of it as some kind of test – will I really become a police officer, or should I just go back to History of Art? – when he had answered a call from a little boy, his voice steady as he explained how he had found his father in the bathroom, and how apparently he had slashed his own wrists.

It was an unusual way for a man to kill himself. It was the first thought he had had upon hearing the boy's explanation.

As a probationary officer, Lestrade had been asked to come along and what he had discovered haunted him still.

The boy had been _covered_ in blood. His tiny hands trying to cover enough of the terrible wounds the father had inflicted on himself, trying to save him.

Worst of all was the certainty already written of the boy's face that nothing he was doing was useful anymore.

And that boy had just lost his father in the worst possible way.

Against his superiors and colleague's insistence, Greg rode with John to the hospital and stayed with him until the boy's mother showed up.

She had been a little red person, as he called the 'invisible alcoholics'; Those people who could be seen as nothing less than normal people but who, in fact, could not handle a day without numbing their mind into an alcoholic haze.

She had taken John into her arms and cried.

From that day on, Greg had taken it upon himself to visit John every two to three days until Helen Watson took him aside and explained how she could not afford the mortgage anymore and how her late husband had a nice house somewhere far away and how she could find a job as a housemaid there and how there were leaving.

Greg tried to convince her to stay, try to make her understand how John needed to stay here.

But she stopped him and she was angry and sad. "Gregory!" she said, "I thank you for everything you've done for me and my son, but that little boy needs to understand that his father is gone and that I am his only family left. He can't keep depending on a stranger. I am sorry Gregory, but it's for the best. A new life will help him heal. That's what he needs."

He did not tell her how it was him that John needed, and how he had begun to care for the boy as if he was his own; His own little bundle of braveness and sadness and brightness.

And love.

They left on a Saturday, never to be heard from again and John was lost to him.

* * *

"Do you think that if I dyed my hair black, people would take us both in?" John asked, tucked into the bed against Sherlock. The younger boy was reading a novel he had stolen from their History teacher. He shrugged.

"It is not your hair color that is the problem John, it is me. They want to have two cute caring little boys, and when they realized only one of them is that way, they only want to keep you. Parents dislike me for my personality, not for a lack of fraternal resemblance."

John frowned and hid his head into Sherlock's shoulder, his forehead brushing along the thick scar on the side of Sherlock's head.

"Well it doesn't matter anyway. I won't go anywhere without you," John assured Sherlock for the thousandth times. He felt Sherlock shift against him and he breathed deeply.

"Thanks John."

John beat his lips and looked aways from Sherlock.

"Do you think people are searching for you?" He asked softly, for what must have been the hundredth of times.

Sherlock frowned. "No, they would have found us already if they were; it's been over a year."

"But Sherlock, you gave the police a false name and you told them we were brothers and – "

"Stop saying that! It wouldn't matter if they knew my real name. Everyone at home dislikes me. It's better this way,"

John frowned and sat up. "_You _stop saying that! You still have people home, you still have a family! You can't know what they think! Maybe they're very sad that you are gone."

"SHUT UP!" Sherlock yelled and he pushed John who fell onto the floor. Tears were running along Sherlock's red cheeks and he looked furious. "YOU'RE MY FAMILY, NO ONE ELSE, I don't care about Mycroft. He dislikes me!"

John stared at him and his heart clenched. Sherlock seldom cried and it had almost always been because of the residual pain in his head, but here Sherlock was crying for a brother he believed _disliked_ him.

"What has he done Sherlock, for you to be so sure he doesn't love you?" Sherlock fall back onto the bed and curled up on himself, his tiny arms around his knees.

"He left."

John stood up and sat himself back on the bed, his hands on Sherlock's back.

"Left where?"

"For Uni."

It was the first time John got to hear the answer to this one question. They had fought many times over Sherlock's choice to remain with John after he woke up from surgery.

At first, John had not said a word. He had just lost his mother and he had failed to protect Sherlock when the ship had sunk and there were all those people everywhere. He had not said a word until a large doctor had come and found him and told him how his little brother Eiden had just woken up.

It was Sherlock's doing if there were together today.

"You told me he was fifteen, how could he be leaving for Uni?" He asked, bewildered.

Sherlock turned his head and glared at him. "He is my brother, he is very smart," he snapped.

"You – You think he stopped caring for you because he was leaving for University?" John's eyebrows rose just before he frowned deeply. "That – Sherlock, that's – hu – stupid?", he said.

Almost violently, Sherlock sat up, his hands clenched in front of him, as if he was debating striking John.

"I said SHUT UP! It's not idiotic, it's a fact, she said it – She – I – SHUT UP and _leave_ _me_ _alone_!" Tears were again filling his eyes and he rubbed them away with his fists.

Moved, John held his arms and welcomed him in a strong hug.

"Okay, I am sorry Sherlock, but can you tell me who said what to you?" Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder and shrugged.

"Elizabeth. - He – He said he couldn't take care of me anymore and he had to find someone to help him – as if I was going to annoy him if he asked me not to! He could have told me that I had to be quiet and just give him a little space to do his Uni things!"

He breathed deeply and exhaled in a sob. "He was often away in London and she refused to let me call him and she told me he was the one who asked her I not be allowed to call. She told me he said I was a burden and he couldn't afford to waste more time with me."

"That's why you decided to find your mother," John whispered, his voice thick with tears.

Sherlock shrugged in his arms. "I thought that she would care more if I came, that she would be happy to see me and realize that she needed to come home."

John knew that woman could have been lying. Sherlock had mentioned Mycroft many times as he told John about his wonderful experiments. John could not believe he would stop liking Sherlock. He could not understand how anyone could not find Sherlock extraordinary.

He stayed silent.

* * *

Mycroft ended his dissertation with a contradictory conclusion which he was sure would render his teacher furious and closed his fountain pen, satisfied.

His second year at University had been eventless. He seldom had friends and could not be bothered to take part in any student festivities. He preferred calm and quiet.

He preferred the heavy loneliness. It was his punishment for losing his brother.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to push away the feeling of being swallowed by his despair.

His phone rang.

"Mycroft Holmes." He answered automatically, his voice void of emotion.

"Mister Holmes, it's Mike Stamford, your dad's old PA." Stamford had been his father's secretary for more than ten years. That he would call was highly unusual. Mycroft sat up straight.

"What can I do for you, Stamford?" He asked, on the edge of his seat. The last time he had been in contact with Stamford, he had been asking for help in finding Sherlock.

"The woman who was with Sherlock, Elizabeth Newman, I think I found her, Mycroft."

He hated when the man took the right to call him by his first name. He did not care at the moment.

"Where?"

"I am not sure, Mycroft. It may not be her, but I think I recognized her as one Joan Doe, found on the shore in Dunnet's bay. She is believed to be one of the victims of the Iceland Ferry's Shipwreck 15 months ago."

Despair swallowed him whole.

* * *

**_Hi everyone! I hope you enjoyed this new chapter. :) Don't hesitate to let me know. _**

**_Blibl'_**


	3. III ALIVE

III. ALIVE

"Greg, there's a kid at the front, doesn't want to leave. See what's the problem is."

Gregory groaned and stood up. His twelve hours long shift was about to end and Gregson had to ask him to undergo one last core which could end up keeping him in NSY for a few more hours.

"Got it boss," he grumbled, making his way to the elevator.

It had been a very long day and everything he wanted was to find himself in bed, asleep, for the next year or so.

The young man – teenager? – he found at the front desk gave him halt. Greg took in the fine dark Parkstone jacket over a pale Benton shirt and black trousers and cringed.

He hated those posh kids, and he certainly was too tired to handle whatever petty problems the kid had with any patience.

Yet, he had to.

"Hello, Officer Lestrade, what can I do for you?"

He held his hand out and repressed a shiver when the guy's cold one shook his.

"Mycroft Holmes. I was told by a Mister Cornwill that I would find some help here," Holmes introduced himself.

At the mention of Cornwill's name, Gregory's heart began to beat faster. It figures that the kid would be some relation of his boss – the boss of the boss of his boss.

"Of course Mister Holmes, please follow me."

He led him through the corridors and into the elevator. Mycroft Holmes followed him silently and sat himself across from him when they reached Lestrade's desk.

"So, tell me what it is the yard can help you with."

Holmes took the leather case he had brought with him and took a file out of it. He held it out to Gregory.

The file revealed some pictures of a woman and a kid, no older than eight years old.

"The woman's name is Elizabeth Newman. I believe you must have a file on her, as she is a suspect in a kidnapping case."

Quickly, Gregory typed the name into the database and indeed, here she was. He also recognized the child she was suspected to have taken as the one in the file.

The little boy's name was Sherlock Holmes.

Gregory raised his eyes on Mycroft Holmes, who looked at the computer with something akin to despair.

"Do you have new elements on the case, Mister Holmes?" He asked softly.

Holmes nodded slowly and swallowed a few times before talking.

"A friend of mine believes he may have recognized her as one of the Iceland Ferry's victims," the young man answered, and Gregory shuddered at the perspective.

If it was true, there was little to no chance, he would ever find his little brother alive.

"Very well, we will go through the victims. A lot of them where never identified as the company lost their registration the day of the wreckage."

Holmes remained silent but brought his chair around the desk to sit beside Gregory.

"So, woman, between twenty to forty years old -. They are all here," he said, typing away the description needed to access the database.

Pictures of twenty-four pale-blue women's face appeared on the screen.

"She was found on the shore on dunnet's bay, can you not narrow the research down?"

"I can, yes -," he was to enter the new information when - " - wait a min- "

Oh.

Gregory's breath caught in his throat and a violent shiver ran through him.

Oh no.

He ignored Holmes insistent questions and clicked on one of the woman's picture.

"No no no no no no. Oh Jesus Christ." He couldn't believe, he could not –

-no.

"I understand you know this woman."

"I know her son. I knew her son very well," he said, quickly, almost dizzy. He went back to the database and typed a research for young victims on the wreckage.

There was three girls and two boys. None of them was John.

And none of them seemed to be Sherlock Holmes either.

"He is one of them?" Holmes asked softly. Greg breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

"This woman – I – Her son found his dad bleeding out after having slashed his own wrists. He called us – me – I was the one to answer and went to site. John was a mess of blood but he was so very calm, very brave. She took him away two months later, wanted to give him a new life. She refused to tell me where they were going."

"He may be alive. He may not have been on the boat," Holmes tried to reassure him and Greg felt bad for him. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

His hand were shaking badly.

"I am sorry. It is unprofessional of me to not fulfill your request. Let's find this lady first." He went back to the woman's pictures and went through them, stopping when he recognized Elizabeth Newman.

"It is her," Mycroft confirmed. His voice shook and Gregory could feel him tense beside him.

"Sherlock was not on the victim's listing either, Mister Holmes," he said, slowly.

"How many bodies remained lost to the see?" Holmes asked, and Lestrade opened a new window on his computer and requested the information.

"Seventy-seven. There were only twelve survivors."

"Show me the list of survivors."

That was it then. If Sherlock – or John – were not on the list – and how could they be? Would Mycroft not have been contacted if Sherlock had been found? Surely the little boy must have known his own last name. It was the 21th Century, after all, getting your identity lost was not that easy anymore.

"Are you sure?" He asked, because he didn't want to be witness to that young man terrible disappointment. The accident had occurred more than a year ago, the real chance that Sherlock and John would be alive and well was almost null.

His heart beat and he clicked open the survivors' listing.

Twelve faces appeared on the screen, along with names and ages. Gregory didn't even have the time to check them all as Mycroft let out a dry sob and jumped on his feet, moving closer to the screen. He held out his hand and touched the screen, pointing at the picture of a young boy whose head was heavily bandaged.

"Oh god," sobbed the young man – a kid, he really was a kid at this moment – and Lestrade opened Sherlock's file.

"Eiden Watson, 6 years old," Lestrade read. "Shit," he continued, going back to the first page and scrolling down, finding John blond little head, rather tired looking but without a scratch on his body.

Lestrade let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. God, the tyke was alive.

Oh thank you Lord.

"His last name is Watson," said Mycroft beside him. Lestrade nodded and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Do you think – Why would they give your brother a false name? I mean, I know John, he wouldn't do that without a very good reason, let alone think about something like this."

"I don't think it was John's doing. My little brother is a genius. He – there must have been a reason for him to do such a thing and –"he stopped talking and took a deep breath, his hands shaking alongside his body.

Lestrade turned toward him and took hold of his right forearm. "Sit down, Mycroft. You know he is alive. Now we can find them. Sit down before you faint," he ordered the young man gently.

The latter stared at him, uncertain and looking lost before he reluctantly sat back down.

Lestrade held out his hand and straightened one of Mycroft's fallen locks. He let his hand on the back of the young man's neck and squeezed lightly.

"Mycroft, your brother is alive, so breathe deeply. We are going to find him," he whispered.

It was as if ropes had been violently cut out of Mycroft's body, as if all his aristocratic posturing, his perfect mask, had been washed up in an instant. Holmes sagged on his chair and he began to shake, heavy sobs soon coming out of his parted lips.

"Lord, Mycroft, shh – I know." Gregory comforted him, his hands running down his hair and back, along his neck and jaw. "We'll find him, it's okay. I swear we'll find him." Slowly, Mycroft raised his eyes, Greg's hand still holding his delicate jaw, and met his eyes.

"You say 'we '. Who is 'we'? "He asked, his voice raw from crying. Gregory smiled softly and let his hands drop, finding Mycroft clenched ones.

"John Watson is the bravest kid I have ever met, and he's got no one left. If your brother got his name, it means they're somewhere together, so I am coming along, because I intend to take John back here with me and never let him go."

Mycroft looked at him as if he was seeing through to his soul.

"It is a great responsibility for someone so young," he eventually whispered.

"It is the only one I'll ever accept with full certainty. And you're one to talk," he answered with a smile.

Mycroft seemed to think about it, swallowed around the last traces of tears and nodded, his eyes closed.

"Okay then," Lestrade said, squeezing Mycroft's hands. "Let's find our boys."

* * *

Mycroft could not believe how lucky he had been in finding Gregory Lestrade. It was as if after sixteen months, something was finally going his way, getting him closer to finding his little brother – alive.

Looking at the man beside him in the plane he had booked almost right away, Mycroft felt himself blushing. Lestrade was a passionate, smart good looking man. The sort of man Mycroft had always shied away from.

For professional, political or social interactions, Mycroft had never experienced any kind of fear of being – judged, humiliated, disregarded. He had been raised by his father who had taught him the finest ways of manipulation and the beauty of power and had given him all his precious contacts and every information he needed to have in order to secure his future position.

At seventeen, many of his late father's informants and pawns in the government had sworn allegiance to him.

Mycroft was therefore not the kind of man to be shy about anything. Only, he was not used to have any sort of social interactions outside the foundations of his future carrier.

Lestrade was a charming man and Mycroft felt himself at a loss.

"Are you married? Is your wife going to agree to you adopting an eleven years old kid?"

Lestrade wasn't married. Mycroft knew that, and from the look of Lestrade, he knew Mycroft knew it. He could feel the blush spreading on his cheeks and he swallowed nervously.

Gregory smirked.

"No, I don't have a wife, Mycroft," he answered. His expression sobered quickly. "And I am only twenty-two," he winced. "I said that I was going to take him but, I am not sure how it works. Will they even let me, let us, take them both back us. We have no right over John."

Mycroft stared at Lestrade's pale face and slowly held out his hand and squeezed the man's wrist reassuringly.

"My mother's brother occupies a minor position in the Department of Education while I have friends at the Ministry of Justice. They will give John to you," he said, and Gregory's eyes went wide.

"God, who the hell are you?" He asked as he slipped his hand in Mycroft's one, which had still been holding Gregory's wrist.

"Just a regular student," Mycroft answered with a hint of a smile on his lips. He only hoped his awkwardness at having his hand in Lestrade's wasn't obvious.

Lestrade did not believe him – he wouldn't have believed himself either – but he kept on smiling.

"Well then, Mycroft, thank you. You have no idea what it means to me."

Since Mycroft needed to hold Sherlock against him as a way to finally breathe normally again since his disappearance, he had some ideas.

"I do, Gregory and you're very welcome."

If Lestrade had been surprised – astounished – by Mycroft's obvious ties to the british government, he couldn't help but choke on his spit when he saw the black car waiting for them at their descent of the plane.

"Mister Holmes, a pleasure to meet you. Bjorn Horik. I was sent by the Minister of Foreigh Affairs to guide you. You must been Gregory Lestrade?"

Gregory nodded silently and shook the man's hand. "We are to be at the hospital they treated the boy known as Eiden Watson in thirty minutes. They'll have some answers. You will then meet Minister Sveinsson."

Mycroft raised his hand, stopping him. And Greg's eyes went wide again because Mycroft was seventeen and could just raise his hand and interrupt a Minister's emissary.

"Mister Holmes?"

"Do you know where they are, Mister Horik?" He asked.

The man regrettably shook his head. "No. There was volcanic activities from Eyjafjallajökull and our systems were down. Everything regarding your brother has been dealt with on paper."

He seemed to become nervous and checked his phone.

"The papers have been lost," finished Lestrade, and how could everything be so fucked up. There were living in the 21th century, for god sake, how was it possible to loose kids between two developed countries.

"Yes," the man answered.

Gregory could see Mycroft's shoulders slumping as if the entire world was now resting – again – on his shoulders.

Greg took two steps toward him and squeezed his shoulder. The young man face was still as blank as when they had arrived, but Lestrade could see the raging emotions in his eyes.

"We will find them, Mycroft."

Mycroft took a deep breath and nodded.

"Yes Gregory, of course we will," he said, taking a step back and facing Bjorn Horik again.

"Take us to the hospital, Mister Horik."

The drive to the hospital had been quick and Lestrade could only imagine what a beautiful country there were in and how unfair it was that his first real trip out of the U.K. would occur in such dramatic circumstances.

The lead surgeon of the hospital met them in the hall. "Lagertha Haraldson, nice to meet you Mister Holmes, Mister Lestrade." The woman was a force of nature, her bright blue eyes held such great maturity and intelligence that Lestrade couldn't help falling a little in love with her. She also had a very pronounced Texan accent.

"Madam, thank you for meeting us."

"You are welcome, please come with me to my office."

They followed her three floors up and were led to a bright office, with wide windows open to the city and the Volcano behind it.

"Please, sit," she said, taking her place behind the desk. She opened a file and held it out to them. Mycroft took it and laid it on the desk in front of both of them.

Sherlock was barely recognizable. His little head was covered in white bandage, his face pale and his eyes closed. Lestrade couldn't help but put his arm around Mycroft's shoulders.

Beside Sherlock's bed was a blond boy that Gregory recognized right away. He let out a sharp breath and he stared at the picture hungrily, trying to find any injuries on john's body.

"Sherlock was brought to us with a severe concussion. He was in an advance state of hypothermia and was delirious. John, the other boy, kept him awake and in doing so certainly saved his life. He needed brain surgery right away. I was the one who operated on him."

Mycroft looked at her avidly now, wanting to hear everything his baby brother had been through without him.

"Everything went well, Mister Holmes. He woke after two days and I have never seen in my entire carrier a boy that smart and that brave. He was talking so much and so easily as if he hadn't been subjected to a brain surgery. I feared for a while that I was the reason he was talking and deducing things so much, but John, the other boy who had not spoken a word since they had been brought here, told us that it was normal, that he had always been that way."

She stared at Mycroft with questioning eyes and he nodded.

"Yes, Sherlock is a genius," he said, simply. "Do you know what happened to them afterwards?"

"We kept Sherlock for a week. As for John he couldn't remain at the hospital since everything was thankfully fine with him. He was, I think, taken in by a foster family. After Sherlock was discharged, there were sent back to England."

"Do you know where in England, Madam?" Lestrade asked, and he felt as if there were this close to know where they were, but it was like the information was mysteriously lost in memory each time they asked for it.

"They didn't know," she said regretfully. "I know that they took them back to England but they didn't know which orphanage was going to take them."

"Do you know who took them?"

She shook her head and Lestrade nodded. "Thank you at least, for the precious informations. Knowing they are alive and well is everything we could hope for," Greg said, worriedly watching Mycroft's closed off expression.

"I really hope you will find them," she said, with a sad smile, and she too could see how disappointed Mycroft was.

"Thank you. Come on Mycroft, we've got to the Ministry."

Mycroft straightened and stood up. He held out his hand to the Surgeon and smiled tightly.

"I cannot thank you enough for the genial care you offered my little brother. I wish you could understand what you accomplished in not damaging his brain. If he had lost even one percent of his cognitive function, he wouldn't be, wherever he is, the same little boy. So you have all my gratitude, Madam," he said, and tears – actual fucking tears – were gathering in his eyes and Gregory felt his own emotion well up.

He took Mycroft's hand and led him outside the office and outside the building. When they got to the car which would take them to the Ministry, Lestrade gave Horik a nod and the man mysteriously understood. He got in the car and closed the door, leaving them alone.

Lestrade let go of Mycroft's hand and stood in front of him. He took the youg man's face in his hands and forced him to look him in the eyes.

The bright blue gaze was shadowed with tears, pain and fear. "I have never felt this helpless, Lestrade. Even when he was gone. I was never this close and this far away from him," he choked on his tears. He let out a desperate moan that he couldn't hold back anymore. "Where is my brother, Gregory, where is he?"

The kid – because he was a fucking kid, by the Lords! – sobbed for what must have certainly been the first time since his brother disappeared.

Gregory felt his own tears run down his cheeks. He let go of Mycroft's face and hugged him, the man hiding his face and pain in his shoulder.

For a long time, Gregory gave Mycroft the shelter he needed to let go of his pain.

The Minister was sorry. Mycroft had rarely seen a man in politics with such obvious genuine feelings. But the man had five boys and he could certainly understand what a terrifying experience losing a child was.

He was sorry not to be able to help.

The woman that had dealt with 'Eiden' and John Watson's case had died of lung cancer three months ago. And Lestrade didn't know what he had done to deserve this, but something was against them.

Gregory wasn't a religious man, but he was beginning to believe that something, really, was trying to keep them away from their kids.

"But I can assure you that they are in an orphanage in the United Kingdom."

They had gathered that, at least.

Lestrade closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Is there that many orphanages in the UK?" he asked Mycroft.

The man had been listless since their departure from the hospital. Greg was certain the Minister had not seen it, but even after only three days of knowing each other, Gregory could see through the mask he always wore.

"No. Not many," Mycroft answered. And it should have been a happy thought. It may have been as easy as calling every orphanage in the U.K. and asking them if they had a 'Eiden' and a 'John' with them.

Mycroft apparently couldn't let himself hope anymore.

"Thank you, Minister. We will let you know when we find them," Mycroft said. The man stood up and shook his hand. "Of course, and please, let me know of anything you need."

"I will."

Lestrade shook hands with the Minister as well and followed Mycroft quickly outside the building.

"What now?" He whispered in Mycroft's ear. The man turned his face toward him and blinked. "Now, Gregory, we go back to London and we call every orphanage one by one, and hopefully, if we are very very lucky, they will be there."

Greg breathed out slowly, wishing with all his might that John and Sherlock could already be with them, and he laid his forehead against Mycroft's.

"Yes, we will."

They stayed that way until the car pulled up beside them, ready to take them back to the airport.

* * *

_**Oh my god, what a very sad pair they are. :( I hope you liked this chapter. The chase is not over though. Let me know what you thought of this chapter.**_ __ _**BLIBL**_


	4. IV THE RUNAWAYS

IV. THE RUNAWAYS

Sherlock was running through the dark corridors of the building, his ears pounding with each step. He had to find John and tell him everything and they had to hide – go away.

The woman and the man wanted to take John away from him and not let him come back. They didn't care that Sherlock would be alone if John went away or that the other kids would hurt him because he was too smart for them and they were stupid.

They wanted to take John away from him; Saying how John only needed to understand that having a family was worth it, that it was better than to be stuck here, no matter how he loved Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't let that happen. And he knew - of course he knew - that John wouldn't let that happen either. He had sworn to Sherlock that he would never leave him.

Sherlock's bare feet slowed down when he arrived at their room's door and he opened it violently, sending it crashing onto the wall.

John, who had been dozing with a book on his chest, started and sat up abruptly.

His eyes widened and he quickly stood up, hurrying at Sherlock's side. The little boy just now realized that tears were running down his cheeks.

"Hey, Locki, what's going on?" John asked, obviously worried. He knew how rarely Sherlock cried.

"They are going to send you away John. They said they wouldn't let you come back anymore. They said that the family that would take you next should know that you will be difficult at first because you'll want to come back here. They won't let you come back," he whined, and threw himself into John's arms.

"They won't let you come back," he repeated, and he could feel John tensing against him.

"No, Sherlock," John said. And Sherlock swallowed and tried to stop his tears because he was a big boy and only little boys and stupid boys cried. And he was brave.

John always said that he was very brave.

He let go of John and took a step back. Of course, John would say no. He knew John wouldn't let that happen. Even if John was not yet eleven and adults never listened to children.

John kneeled in front of him and took a hold of his shoulders, staring right at him.

He shook his head and smiled. "You really cry for the weirdest thing," he said, and Sherlock frowned and wanted to snap at him, because it wasn't weird to cry when adults were threatening to take his John away from him.

He felt John's hands on his face, wiping the traces of tears and he looked up to see the other boy smiling at him.

"I won't go anywhere without you Sherlock, I promised, remember?"

Sherlock nodded and shrugged at the same time. He knew that promises didn't mean a lot. Mycroft had promised to him that he would always have time for Sherlock, no matter what, and look where he was now.

Mycroft was certainly enjoying his Sherlock-free life now.

" – Sherlock!"

Sherlock frowned and looked back up at John's face. "What?"

"It's like the fifth times I've called your name. Come back to me and listen," he said, his hands still on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock squinted and stared at him.

"Yes," he said, pouting. John smiled and kissed his forehead.

"You told me once that you were very very rich, is that right?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and nodded.

Yes, he was. Very much so. He tried to understand where John was going but the fear and panic he was still feeling were clouding his mind.

"Is there an empty house that we could occupy without being caught?" John asked and Sherlock's eyes widened because oh, how smart John was.

He smiled widely and squeaked excitedly.

"Yes, yes, of course! And we could go back to London and that would be awesome. I know the perfect place. Father had his laboratory there. Mother closed the house when he died because of the souvenirs," he explained, eagerly.

John smiled happily, watching the delight and relief in Sherlock's eyes and nodded.

"We'll go tonight then. We'll use one of your maps."

Sherlock had drawn several maps of the building and the area surrounding it, coming up with different escape routes.

"We also need a way to go to London. It's going to be hard on the train."

Sherlock shook his head. "Easy. We need to embark with a family, following them closely. Once we're on the train, we'll have to move often. The ticket inspectors will not stop us, thinking that they'll find our parents somewhere else. They'll forget about it quickly enough. With any luck, there won't even be Ticket Inspectors. There was a strike two days ago and they could still be understaffed.

John was watching him with a soft smile and wide eyes. Sherlock blushed and twisted his little fingers, suddenly shy.

"You're brilliant," John whispered, awed and he hugged Sherlock again.

Sherlock shrugged but a proud little smile was making its way on his lips.

John laughed.

The plan had been simple enough. Wait for the lady to be asleep, take a chair to the bathroom, open the high window beside the sinks and risk your life in trying to reach the metallic ladder that was used by the old gardener to go up to the roof to sweep the chimney.

John was terrified that Sherlock would fall. He was on the ladder, his heart in his throat and his eyes fixed on Sherlock as the little boy sat on the edge of the window. They were three floors up and if Sherlock fell now, he would die.

They couldn't go back though. They had to succeed.

'Right, Loki. Give me your hand. I will take your hand and you will let yourself fall. I will not let you fall okay? I promise. I will hold on to you and in less than a second you'll be with me on the ladder."

Sherlock was watching him seriously, his hands white on the edge. He nodded. "Of course John," he whispered, and he offered John a reassuring little smile.

John went to the edge of the ladder. He had one arm around one of the rung and the other went out toward Sherlock. Sherlock stuck himself against the side of the window, his right hand finding a strong grip and he held his left arm toward John.

John took hold of his wrist. "Hold my wrist as well. Keep your eyes fixed on me. It's going to go very fast. I won't let go." John muttered forcefully.

Sherlock stared at him and nodded. "Okay. I am ready," he said, his hand squeezing John's wrist.

His head against the wall and his eyes fixed on John, Sherlock smiled one last time and let go.

* * *

"I am very sorry Sir, we don't have any kids by that name," the young woman on the phone said to Gregory. He sighed and closed his eyes. "Thank you Madam, have a good day."

He hung up and turned toward Mycroft who was also on the phone. He didn't seem to have any good news either. Greg watched him lay his phone on the table and take his head in his hands.

"No luck?" Lestrade asked, standing up and joining Mycroft on the sofa. He let his head rest on the soft cushion and laid his hand on Mycroft's back. "It's okay, there is still ten places left."

"They won't be there," Mycroft said, his voice tight. "They won't – they are nowhere. We won't ever find them." Lestrade sat upright and leaned toward Mycroft until his face rested on the young man's shoulder. His hand kept stroking his back.

"Stop it Mycroft. We will not stop searching until we find them, okay?"

Mycroft breathed deeply and sat up, Lestrade leaning away to let him. The man's blue eyes found his and Gregory couldn't help but raise his hand to his face and caress his smooth jaw.

"We will find them," he said again, his face now inches away from Mycroft's.

He was so focused on Mycroft's amazing eyes that he didn't see him raise his hands until they were on his face. They both closed the space between them and kissed.

The train ride had honestly been the most fun they had had since – the accident. Sherlock had been so very clever all along, knowing when the inspector would come and where they had to hide and how not to look suspicious.

Now in London, they however were exhausted. For seven hours they had had to run around and keep checking everything out of fear of being discovered. Sherlock's brilliant mind had been working at full speed all the time and he was barely able to remain on his feet.

John looked at him, slumped on the bench, almost asleep and sighed. He knew where the house was. They had carefully studied the fastest way to go there once they arrived in London so he could do it without Sherlock.

He was not sure people wouldn't stop them in the street if they saw an eleven years old carrying a little boy around though.

He apparently wouldn't have a choice, John realized, as Sherlock slipped, his head rolling down and he surged forward to catch him.

Sherlock whined and John shook him gently.

"Sherlock, wake up. Loki, come on, just get on my back." Sherlock opened his grey-blue eyes and stared at him tiredly, obviously ready to pout. And John was certain that Sherlock would have been totally okay to just sleep there for the night.

Groaning, the little boy stood up on the bench and waited for John to turn around.

Once John's back was to him, he encircled the older boy's neck with his thin arms and jumped, his legs going around John's waist.

Sherlock hid his head in John's right shoulder while the latter took hold of his legs and adjusted his tiny package on his back.

"How can you be that little and so heavy at the same time?" John asked, breathing heavily as he began walking. He felt Sherlock shrugged, barely awake.

"It's because I am a genius. My brain is heavy."

John let out a light laugh.

* * *

There were only five orphanages left.

Mycroft couldn't hope anymore.

He had stopped to do so a while back already, maybe at the hospital in Iceland, maybe even before, when he had realized that the government did not know where Sherlock and John were – Maybe he never really had had any hope.

Sherlock had been gone for sixteen months and learning that he was alive and well had been one thing but – Why hadn't he called? Why had he lied about his name? What had Mycroft done to deserve that?

He had taken care of his little brother for so long - Loved him, so very much.

He remembered the first time their mother had decided to leave them on their own. Sherlock had only been one and Mycroft had celebrated his tenth birthday a week prior to their Mother's departure.

Of course she had not let them entirely alone. The house had plenty of domestics. Mother had also spent a long time finding the right 'nanny' for both of them. Mrs Hudson had been a great choice. Not because she was great with kids, but because she understood why Mycroft refused to let her take care of Sherlock.

Sherlock was a difficult baby. He fussed and cried and often grew frustrated with the littlest things. Mother didn't understand him – never had.

Until Mycroft understood what was going on – until he understood that a baby was not only a needy thing but a future intelligence already growing – she would live him crying in his room for hours, telling the helps and Father that kids often cried for nothing and that he would stop eventually.

Mycroft made him stop crying. He took him out of his crib, dried his red little cheeks, held him against him and breathed deeply. Sherlock kept crying and crying and Mycroft just kept breathing. After what felt like hours but had only really been minutes, Sherlock had stopped, leaned back and stared at his big brother.

His chubby little hands had grabbed Mycroft's neck long red hair and pulled, as if to say – "how dare you live me alone for so long where were you why didn't you come before don't let her take me away and let just throw this prison away"

That same day, a new crib – bought secretly by Mrs Hudson and the gardener – was put in Mycroft's personal library adjoined to his room. It quickly became Sherlock's room and they would spent hours in the room, Mycroft reading, playing, teaching everything he knew and was still learning, to his little brother.

He became the one person Sherlock could stand having at his side when his brain would fill itself with too much information that the little boy couldn't handle. He became Sherlock's mother, Sherlock's father, Sherlock's brother, best friend and help.

And Mycroft knew it was his fault if Sherlock had wanted to go to Iceland, because he had had so many things to do and so little time for Sherlock the last few months before his disappearance.

It was his fault. And of course he had always known it and it would only be fair that he would never found his – **his son.**

**He couldn't hope.**

" –Mycroft!" He felt himself come back to the present and fell into Lestrade's worried eyes. Gregory's hands came up to his face and he let him wipe the tears away. He winced.

"I am sorry – I –" He swallowed and straightened himself, shaking his head.

"It's okay, Mycroft – just – you were breathing wrong and I was afraid you were having some kind of panic attack," Gregory said, his hands now squeezing Mycroft's gently.

Mycroft stayed silent for a while.

"There are five orphanages left," he said eventually and took the phone with one hand, the other still firmly in Lestrade's.

He dialed, listened to the tone and breathed, again.

**No hope .**

"Montrose House for Children, Becca Limpton speaking."

Mycroft raised his eyes on Lestrade and held his gaze, taking as much comfort and courage as he could.

"Mrs Limpton, good afternoon. My name is Mycroft Holmes and I am searching for my little brother. His name is Sherlock Holmes and I was led to believe he could have been placed into your care. It would have been sixteen months ago. I was informed that he did not give his real name but an alias in order to pose as his friend's brother," he interrupted himself and Lestrade squeezed his hand again. "Eiden and John Watson, do you maybe have them wi –" A sharp intake of breath on the other side of the phone stopped him and his eyes met Gregory's, alarmed.

"Madam, please, do you know these boys?" He asked, and his voice held no traces of his legendary control anymore. He was ready to beg this woman for his brother if he had to.

"Oh my god, poor things. I knew they weren't brother," the woman seemed to say to herself and Mycroft wanted to – choke her – so she would answer him. He shook so badly that the hand gripping his phone was white.

"Madam, please", he asked again, gritting his teeth.

"I – Oh I should tell the director, could you – " Mycroft's eyes went wide and he again felt the helplessness run through his body as a nervous whine came out of his mouth. Lestrade leaned down abruptly and took the phone from Mycroft.

"Mrs Limpton, this is officer Gregory Lestrade from New Scotland Yard, I need you to tell me right now if you know the children whose names Mister Holmes gave you. We have no time to wait for your director," he ordered the woman on the line.

He could hear her stop walking.

"Yes, Yes. Eiden and John were there, they – Oh my god, I am sorry," she whimpered, obviously shaken, and Lestrade felt himself pale. Looking up at Mycroft, he feared that the young man was going into shock. He laid a hand on the side of his face and stroked his cheek softly.

"They ran away," she finally revealed.

Oh god. Running away was not being dead – Running away was good, even if they were again somewherenot with them. He squeezed Mycroft's neck.

"Mrs Limpton, I will need everything you can tell me about their escape."

They would find them.

* * *

Sherlock was sound asleep. John wasn't even sure he had ever seen Sherlock sleep that soundly in the last year and a half he had spent as his roommate.

Apparently, his back was a better bed than the one at Montrose Home.

"We're here," Sherlock said suddenly in his ear and John was by now so accustomed to the silence that he started violently, almost sending Sherlock off of his back.

"Darn Sherlock, are you serious right now? Were you even asleep all this time?" He said, tiredness and stress getting his temper up. Sherlock squeezed his legs around his waist before letting go and John helped him down on the floor.

Kneeling and breathing deeply, his back stiff and painful, he looked up to see Sherlock looking around.

"I recognized the sound and smell of the area. The twenty-four seven shop's bell and the smell of that particular Chinese restaurant and the buzz of the light above the launderette," he shrugged. "I recorded it when I was bored."

John stared at him, gobsmacked. "That's amazing, Loki," he said, almost envious. Sherlock looked at him with a shy smile – as always – and pouted. "It's not hard. I was just bored. You could do it as well if you took the time. Blind people do it easily," he explained.

John shook his head but said nothing. He finally looked at the house they had stopped in front of and his mouth went open in shock. "Is the whole house yours?"

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Of course," he answered.

"Of course," John repeated, shaking his head. "I don't even know you, do I? For all I know, you could actually be from the royal family?" He looked down at Sherlock and paled. "You are not, right?" He asked worryingly.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "No John, I am not, but the MI6 and the CIA occasionally worked for my father."

John let out a terrified laugh and took Sherlock's hand. "My god, who are you people?" He said lightly taking a step toward the stairs.

Sherlock stopped him.

"Do you think we can just come in? I don't have the keys, John," he said, and John translated that by –are you numb what are you doing why do I even – seriously you poor human.

John sighed and followed Sherlock around the building. "We have to climb to the roof. There is a window by which we can enter. I hid a tool to open it so I could come here at any time when I was four."

John laughed. "When you were four? What were you thinking hiding anything outside a roof window when you were four?"

Sherlock blushed and crossed his arms. "Mycroft and I were reading Peter Pan and I thought that if he ever came to play with me, I should be ready to come back home at dawn."

He looked at John defiantly, waiting for him to laugh but John smiled sadly and ruffled his hair. "It was a great idea. Always be prepared, you never know what may happen. And look, here we are and the only reason we'll be able to enter this place is because of your cleverness."

He smiled softly and took a step toward the fire escape of the neighboring building. Before he could comment on the – again -danger of it, tiny arms went around his chest and he felt Sherlock face against his back.

"You are the best Peter Pan ever," the boy muttered, his voice muffled by John's jacket.

John squeezed Sherlock's arms before turning around in his embrace and hugging Sherlock tightly, his face in his dark locks. "And you are the best boy I could ever have wished to find," he said.

* * *

"Okay, they ran away because they didn't want to be separated. They ran away last night, taking all their belongings with them which are a little bag and some old clothes."

"They were seen at Montrose's train station and taking the London train this morning."

"Which means, either they went all the way to London, or they stopped at one place, but where?" Lestrade said, waving his hands nervously.

Mycroft watched Gregory paced back and forth in the dining room and all he could feel was exhaustion.

"-Mycroft! What place? Think! John wouldn't have taken Sherlock away if he wasn't sure they would have somewhere to go. Aside from John's old house, the Watson had nothing, and John's Mother sold the house to pay up the mortgage. But you – you must have homes right? Do you think Sherlock could have thought of a place they could hide away safely?"

Mycroft raised tired blue eyes on Gregory before closing them. He wasn't sure he could keep doing that –hoping.

He was – he wasn't sure he wanted to be an adult anymore about that. For all he knew, Sherlock could be laying in a pool of his own blood somewhere, or have been taken by anyone – they could be lost somewhere, in the night, freezing to death on the street and no one would know.

He felt hands on his face and opened his eyes. Gregory was frowning, clearly angry, and Mycroft swallowed down a wave of shame.

"You are not giving up now, you hear me Mycroft Holmes! You – are – not – giving up!" He snapped, his hands gripping Mycroft's arms painfully. "Look at me," Mycroft looked him in the eyes. "Repeat after me, we are going to find them."

Mycroft remained silent and dropped his gaze. Lestrade shook him again and a hand held his head back up. "We are going to find them, say it!"

**No hope.**

"SAY IT!"

The phone rang.

* * *

_**Oh boy, nothing's really working, is it...Are they even going to find them? ...With only one chapter left, I don't know...:) Hope you liked this new chapter.**_  
_**See your very soon for the next one!**_  
_**And thank you all for your nice comments and kudos.**_  
_**Blibl'**_


	5. V A FAMILY

V. A Family

Sherlock was climbing the ladder with an enthusiasm John couldn't find in himself to feel. He was beyond exhausted. There were only four floors to the top of the building and John sighed deeply when they finally reached the top.

Once he had his feet on the rooftop, he looked up at Sherlock and smiled softly at the kid who was watching the dark sky with a growing interest,

Sherlock frowned. "Why are there so many lights in the sky, John?" He asked. John raised his eyebrows and stared at Sherlock silently, not knowing if he had to take the question seriously or not.

He had learned early on that Sherlock usually was very serious about his questions.

"The lights are stars, John. I can't really explain what they are. Hum, I think they're, like, explosions."

"And the biggest one there?" Sherlock went on, pointing at the – John did a double take – moon.

He couldn't hold back a laugh. "Sherlock, really, you don't know what that is?"

Sherlock looked at him, crossed his arms and pouted. "I must have, since you're watching me as if I have gone crazy, but the information must not have been really interesting so I deleted it."

John raised his head toward the sky and stared at the moon.

"It's the moon. Part of our solar system, you know, with the sun in the middle. There are many other planets which go around the sun."

Sherlock nodded then shrugged.

"Does it affect our life in any way?"

John snorted. "No Loki it doesn't. Once we can travel to other planets I guess it will, but not now, no."

Sherlock looked at him with an air of – see I told you there is no need to know about it.

"Then I was right to delete it. Come on, we've got to go."

And with that, he was running on the roof and John's heart went right up to his throat.

"Sherlock, don't run, we can't see anything!" he said, walking quickly after Sherlock. He was trying to see something on the irregular roof but even with the moon shining above their head, it was still too dark to see his feet.

The fall, then, did not surprise him as much as the violent pain that tore through his arm. He let out a yell, rolling away from the thing that had hurt him and whimpered, holding his arm against his chest.

He could hear Sherlock running toward him and forced himself to stand up, staggering forward to meet him. "Stop running!" he snapped and Sherlock stopped abruptly. The boy made the last few steps toward him slowly before watching his arm in horror.

"Are you hurt? Are you okay? The window is just behind that chimney. Come!" Sherlock said, and John could feel the blood on his arm and – he couldn't do anything and he couldn't stop the bleeding and why was there so much blood what had done it why had he done it was it his fault dad why – please – no –

"John!" John came to himself kneeling on the floor with Sherlock's little hands around his face. The boy's face was so close to his that John could feel his ragged breath on his nose. "You were panicking, you are crying, you are very hurt. We must go to the house, there will be bandage and disinfectant to tend to your wound but you have to calm down, please, John."

John felt dizzy and he wanted to cry and stop and curl up on the floor but Sherlock was there and he couldn't do that to him. He stood up, fighting the wave of nausea that ran through him and his left arm against his chest, and accepted Sherlock's hand, following him.

They went around the chimney and John almost breathed in relief when he saw that Sherlock had already opened the window – and what kind of security had this place?

They just had to slip inside and they would be safe.

"You go first," he whispered to Sherlock. The boy looked ready to argue; brows furrowed but eventually sighed and laid down on the floor, before entering first his upper body, then his thighs and legs inside. John watched him land softly on a sofa with many cushions and he smiled slightly.

No doubt had Sherlock arranged the room himself so that the sofa would be just under the window.

He went down the floor and crawled to the window, echoing Sherlock's move. The little boy helped him, standing on the sofa and cautiously taking a hold of both his shoulder.

When John let himself fall though, his wounded arm cushioning his head, everything went dark for a while and all he could smell was blood and he could hear the siren and the shallow breath of his father and why was his chest not moving and the blood still running and dad had his eyes open and why were his eyes open and why couldn't he see him and –

He woke up the first time to Sherlock crying hysterically while dragging him out of the room and into – no – a bathroom and Sherlock turned on the light and John wanted to tell him that people would know they were there but the white tiles had gone so so red and how could there be so much blood in a body, didn't his dad need all that blood what was going to happen to the blood please stop bleeding stop bleeding stop bleeding –"stop bleeding, John, John, please."

John woke up again, and he could see himself two years ago trying to close his father's wounds and he could feel his tears running down his cheeks.

"'Lock. Locki – "Everything went dark again but for the white noise of Sherlock's cries in his head.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He had never – never – seen so much blood in his life, even when the cook had cut the skin of his middle finger, there had not been so much blood.

And it was John, his John that was bleeding out and breathing wrong and – what should I do oh please no I can't think I –

He needed to call an ambulance, a doctor, someone that could heal John. He stared at John's pale and sweaty face. He had to act now.

He took as much towels as he could and proceeded to make a thick bandage around John's arm before carefully placing his hurt limb on his chest and taking hold of his legs. He couldn't leave him alone in the bathroom while he was searching for a phone.

There was one in his father's study, at the end of the corridor and he used all of his strength to drag John on the floor again.

He managed to open the door and entered the room, trying to find a comfortable spot for John. He hurried toward one of the large chair and took the cushion off of it, throwing it on the floor and gently lifting John upper body onto it.

He slapped his face twice and John opened his eyes briefly as a sob escaped Sherlock's lips.

What if John died today? What if he died and Sherlock stayed alone? No one would know. John would die alone and Sherlock would stay alone and -

Mycroft had always been the one to deal with those sorts of things. Every time Sherlock would hurt himself, Mycroft had always been there taking care of him patiently. Mycroft always knew what to do.

Would he come if Sherlock called him? Even if he didn't want to hear of Sherlock, surely he wouldn't let another kid die, would he? Mycroft was not heartless.

Sherlock was rude and annoying and demanding and Mycroft had had enough and hadn't found him or maybe even searched for him and certainly would he hate to hear from Sherlock but he couldn't let John die, right?

Sherlock let out a terrified moan, sobs racking his little body, his hands coming up to his face, violently shaking.

He didn't care if Mycroft yelled at him for calling. He had to save his John. **John could not die. He was the best Peter Pan ever.**

**He was the only friend Sherlock ever had**.

Standing up, his jaw set and his hands clenched in tight fists, Sherlock ran to the desk and took the phone. Putting it against his ear, he almost cried in relief at hearing the bland tone.

He dialed their – Mycroft's – home number and tried to stop himself from sobbing but one look at John and the silence of the room was filled with his terrified cries again.

"Lestrade speaking," a hoarse voice answered.

And no –

**NO!**

It wasn't Mycroft.

* * *

Lestrade looked at Mycroft and shook his head, the phone ringing loud in his ears. He kissed Mycroft's forehead, a lump in his throat. "You can't give up, Mycroft," he whispered, standing up and walking quickly to the desk.

He took one last look at Mycroft before picking up the phone and rubbing his hand on his eyes, wiping the tears away.

"Lestrade speaking."

There was silence on the other end of the line and he frowned.

"Lestrade speaking, hello." A tiny whimper could be heard and he felt a wave of dizziness run through his body. His knees ungraciously gave up and he had to hold onto the desk so as not to fall on the floor.

"I can hear you, are you okay?" he said, because – oh god yes, please, please – it was a kid crying on the other end and – oh by all the gods please.

"Sherlock, is that you?" he said, his eyes finding Mycroft who had straightened up and was quickly standing. Lestrade held the phone out and Mycroft almost tore it out of his hand.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, is that you?" Mycroft asked. His voice was wrecked.

Lestrade turned the speakerphone on and he could hear Sherlock's – It HAD to be Sherlock – heavy breath.

"Mycroft?" the tiny voice asked, obviously raw from crying.

"Yes, Sherlock, yes, God I hear you. What's going on? Where are you?" Mycroft asked and Gregory could see how hard it was for him not to stay focused.

"I am sorry to bother you, sorry, but please, John – My friend – he's hurt and I don't know what to do," andoh no he was crying and his despair and terror was so obvious that Lestrade felt his own eyes filling up with tears.

"Oh god, please, no," he muttered. Mycroft took a hold of his left forearm and squeezed it painfully.

"Ambulance, now," and while he was panicking, Sherlock had obviously told Mycroft what was wrong with John.

"John hurt his arm. He is bleeding – a lot." Mycroft told him and Lestrade's vision went grey for a while.

All he could remember after that was calling the ambulance and being rushed by Mycroft into another black car.

* * *

They arrived at his father's old house minutes after the ambulance. People were already trying to open the door and Mycroft ran to them and handed them the keys. He couldn't breathe – he was not sure he had been breathing since Sherlock had ended the call.

He felt Lestrade take his hand and give it a squeeze before they followed the doctors and ambulance men inside the house. The hall was eerily silent as they made their way to the third floor.

And then, they could hear Sherlock's wrenching sobs and Mycroft ran and pushed people out of his way and finally – Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock – Sherlock was there, kneeling on the floor, his hands on another boy's chest, whose right arm was covered in red towels.

His brother wasn't the little kid he had left that fateful friday. He had grown so much.

His grey eyes were desperately fixed on him as his body still shook from his sobs.

As the doctors crouched beside John's body, Sherlock was forced to move back, his bloody hands coming up to his chest and his gaze falling down on John again, as if Mycroft didn't exist anymore.

Mycroft felt all his breath leave his body once more and he walked in the room, looking back just a moment to see Lestrade's stricken face as he watched the doctors working on John.

Once he was in front of Sherlock, he crouched – fell on the floor – painfully folding his long legs under him and he held out a hand to his brother.

Sherlock had blood on his pale face when he must have rubbed his hands to stop the tears. He was almost unrecognizable except for his bright tearfull grey eyes and his little snub nose and his red lips and -

Oh god, even covered in blood and sobbing violently, it was still his little brother and Mycroft couldn't hold back anymore as he took Sherlock's shoulders in his large hands and drew him against him. Sherlock's arms stayed down though, and he stiffened abruptly as he was pulled in a tight embrace.

Mycroft moved back and frowned as he tried to find a way around the big lump in his throat to talk.

"Are you hurt somewhere, Sherlock?"

The little boy shook his head and tried crossing his arms, but Mycroft's chest was in the way and he let them fall back quickly.

"Sherlock?"

"I am sorry," the boy eventually said and it was the first time Mycroft had heard his voice in sixteen months except for the phone call.

"God Sherlock, Sherlock, you have no reason to be sorry, it's alright. John is going to be alright, you did good, little brother," he said, trying to reassure his little brother while looking up to the doctors fastening John on a stretcher. He met one of the men's eyes and the doctor nodded quickly.

"See, Sherlock, it's alright, the doctors did a good job," he continued as an ambulance man crouched beside them.

"Hello Sherlock, my name is Willam. John is going to be okay, you know. He'll need some surgery for his arm so that he can use his hand again like nothing ever happened. You were very brave. Would you like to come with us to the hospital or ride there with your brother?" he asked, looking at Mycroft who nodded.

Sherlock raised his eyes on Mycroft and a shiver seemed to run through him.

"Will we be going to the hospital?" Sherlock asked softly, almost apologetically.

"Of course Sherlock, of course we are going to the hospital with John, I promise you."

Something like terror clouded over Sherlock's eyes but he closed them and shrugged.

"He'll go with us." Mycroft answered, giving the man a grateful nod.

"Do you mind if I carry you to the car, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, standing up. Sherlock shrugged again and Mycroft bent down and lifted him up into his arms.

And it was such a beautiful and relieving feeling that Mycroft just stood there for a moment, his arms around Sherlock's little body and his nose in his neck, breathing him in.

"I missed you a lot, little brother," he muttered against Sherlock's skin and the child's arms went around his neck and squeezed him with what seemed to be all of his little strength.

"I am sorry, Mycroft," Sherlock said again and Mycroft was about to answer when Lestrade came up to them, his face haunted and his mouth set up in a tight line of worry.

"I am driving with them Mycroft," he said quickly, and as Mycroft nodded, his chin resting on Sherlock's head, Lestrade bent down a little and kissed him softly, his hand coming up to Mycroft's neck. "We found them, Mycroft, we found them." He said, and Mycroft closed his eyes and put his mouth into Sherlock hair, kissing him and sighing in relief.

He watched Lestrade leave the room and then everything was quiet but for Sherlock's still terrified breath and his own heart beating in his ears. He stayed there, his little brother in his arm, his legs and arms around him and his tears running down his cheeks and he smiled.

They had found them.

* * *

Sherlock was not sure he would ever stop feeling this scared and this – horrified, depressed, sick, lost – as he held onto his big brother. He was not sure he could even ever let him go.

Mycroft still felt the same. He still smelt the same and his arms were still the same when they were around him and his kiss were still the same on his head and his chest was still the same against his body and –

And his love was still the same. He could feel it. He had seen it. Mycroft was thinner than he had ever been, he was more tired than he had ever looked, shaking and watching him as if he was the most precious gift on earth.

He had always looked at him that way.

And Sherlock – idiot Sherlock - had been wrong. He had believed her and she had lied and he had betrayed Mycroft and he could feel his pain.

And what if Mycroft didn't forgive him for leaving him? Because Mycroft was not the one who had left Sherlock, Sherlock was the one who had left him and betrayed him and believed him capable of not loving him anymore when all the clues – even now, especially now – showed him that Mycroft had never stopped caring for him.

His throat was dry and he moistened his lips, slipping his forehead against Mycroft's neck.

He closed his eyes, tightened his grip on Mycroft's shoulders and waist –as if he could just let him fall on the floor and walk away – and no please Sherlock was sorry Mycroft couldn't do that please - and opened his mouth.

"I am sorry Mycroft," he said for the third time but Mycroft never let him go and hugged him even more strongly.

"I don't know why you are sorry for, Brother, but I swear to you there is nothing you could have done that would make me angry. I am sure John's wound was not your fault. We are going to go to the hospital and when you can see him, you will believe that he will be alright. And it will be because of you, you did the right thing calling home."

Sherlock felt the sobs moving from his chest to his mouth and they shook his tired body again. "I thought you were leaving me, I believed Elizabeth over you. I believed you didn't want me anymore. I hurt you," he said through his sobs, moving back a little so he could see Mycroft's tired face. His brother smiled sadly and closed his eyes, bending down and kissing his forehead.

And Mycroft didn't say anything and Sherlock just kept on crying and sobbing "sorry" and hugging his brother.

* * *

Sherlock was asleep on Mycroft. The brothers had held onto each other since they had come in the cosy waiting room in the very private hospital John had been taken to and Mycroft was now lying down on a red couch with Sherlock's sleeping body over him, the hairy head cushioned by his brother's chest with one of Mycroft's hand resting on his back.

"We found them, Greg," Mycroft said, again. The young man's eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his hand caressing Sherlock's back up and down.

"Yes, we did," Greg answered and he couldn't believe they had finally found their kids and – and there was so many things to do now.

He had to find a better place to live, and apply for John's guardianship and organize his schedule at NSY so he could properly take care of John and –

"I don't know where to begin with that – I am so fucking relieved and – "

"We should talk about living arrangement," Mycroft interrupted him, and Lestrade raised his head and met Mycroft's soft blue eyes. The man was eerily calm, as if now that he had found Sherlock, all the exhaustion and fear and terror had left his body which was now devoid of any emotion but a steady calmness.

"Leaving arrangement?" Lestrade said, because they had never talked about anything like that – they had actually never talked about what was happening between them either, but moving together already seemed a little fast.

"Before Sherlock disappeared, Mycroft began, tightening his hold on Sherlock – I had arranged for us to move into Central London. My family owns a building on Baker Street and I wished to move in one of the flat with Sherlock while I would rent the one upstairs. Our old Nanny Mrs Hudson had agreed to be the landlady and she has lived there for the last two years. You could use the flat upstairs." Mycroft explained, as if owning a building in Baker Street was not a big deal.

Lestrade's eyes widened and he smiled humorlessly. "You – Mycroft – I could never afford the – "

"Sherlock needs John. And you have felt what I felt when you realized John was missing and so I nee– I don't care about the lease, as I said, I own the building. Each flat has two rooms, and I really think it would be advantageous for both part to live near each other."

"- and we, uh, could keep – I would like to have a proper meal and a – date – with you, one day."

Mycroft explained quickly, awkwardly, his cheeks flushing and Lestrade's smile softened and he nodded. "Yes, yes, I think that would be nice. Are you sure I will be given John's guardianship though?"

Mycroft stared at him for a moment and smiled. "Yes, yes of course they will give John to you. You'll be an amazing father."

"But only if he wants to," said Greg, crossing his arms.

"He'll want to."

Lestrade smiled and nodded. Yes, Lestrade was pretty sure John would want to.

* * *

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he frowned. Something had awakened him but he couldn't remember what it was. He had been dreaming of something and had been driven awake by a repeated sound – a soft sound.

He shuddered when he heard it again before rolling his eyes and smiling softly. Greg was reading the paper and his turning the pages was what had awakened him.

He stood up quickly, dark locks falling in front of his eyes and he sighed and pushed them aside as he slipped into his slippers. He put on his pale blue dressing gown and opened the door.

Mycroft's back was to him as his brother was obviously busy making breakfast and Sherlock smiled at Gregory who had lowered his paper to greet him.

"Tea or Chocolate today, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock didn't answer but walked over to Mycroft and hugged him, his thin arms squeezing his waist and his face pressed against his side.

"Hello Mycroft," the child said and Mycroft lowered one of his arms and caressed his hair before taking a step back from the kitchen counter and crouching in front of Sherlock.

He kissed his little brother's forehead before taking him in his arms and standing up. His brother hugged him and Sherlock hid his head into his neck, his eyes closed, as his brother kissed his head again and smiled against the side of his face.

"Did you sleep well, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded and opened his eyes to see that Greg had stood up and was holding his arms out. Mycroft passed him over to him and Sherlock felt something sick settling in his stomach as Lestrade carried him.

The man smiled and kissed his temple softly.

"Your brother must finish preparing breakfast as he lost yesterday's cluedo game," Gregory said and Sherlock nodded and smiled at Mycroft who caressed his hair one last time before turning back to the kitchen counter.

Lestrade sat back in the chair with groan. "Ouch, you're getting too big," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. Sherlock sat comfortably on his thighs and rested his arms on the table, eyes on the newspaper.

"Or you're getting too old," he said, and Lestrade laughed and attempted to tickle him. Sherlock turned his head and glared at him and Greg kissed his temple again.

"You're a little snake."

Sherlock smiled a little proudly before focusing on the newspaper as the murmur of his brother and Greg's voices could be heard in the background.

There had been two gruesome murders in Inslington and the police thought that it could be the work of a serial killer.

Clues were everywhere in the article but Sherlock knew he should not trust the journalist and smiled when he remembered that he was actually seating on a fount of informations.

"No, we're not investigating that." Sherlock startled and looked up quickly, a smile on his lips.

"Hi John," Sherlock said. John took an apple on the table and munched it. He shook his head. "We're not," he said again as he received a kiss from Greg and went around the table to greet Mycroft. The man had just put a plate of bacon on the table and kissed John on the top of his head.

"How's your arm, love?" Greg asked as John sat down in his chair.

John looked down on his bare arm and the red scar and flexed his hand. "I can barely feel it pull the skin. It's okay, Greg,' he answered, watching Sherlock immersed himself once more into the article.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, and Lestrade shrugged and smiled.

"No legwork," warned Mycroft as he sat down again with the tea.

Sherlock raised his head and looked him in the eyes. He nodded.

"I promise."

* * *

_**So this is it! I hope you enjoyed this first story. As you can see, it is a serie so there will be more. The next story will be about Sherlock and John meeting new friends and solving the serial killer's case. The part after that will be more domestic. I hope you'll have the patience to wait for me, as I am now working and don't have half the time I had before, and that you will be pleased by the next parts. Thank you for following this story and leaving kudos and comments.**_  
_**Blibl'**_


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